


Queen's Battle

by Zdenka



Category: Chess (Board Game)
Genre: F/F, Non-Permanent Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 15:39:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9614525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/pseuds/Zdenka
Summary: Between the moves in a game of chess, there is a pause in the battle: a moment outside of time, when two women who are destined to be enemies may lay aside their swords.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [primeideal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/gifts).



The gate opens onto a square room of stone. Dagmar steps through, gripping her sword tightly. Before her is a figure in black armor, the helm encircled by a black crown, with sword raised in her hand. Dagmar does not take her eyes from her opponent, even as she hears the heavy gate close behind her. Always she wonders: will this be the time when her opponent strikes before speaking, when the battle is in earnest?

But the thought is barely formed before the black-armored figure lowers her sword and pulls off her helm, revealing a beloved, familiar face.

“Melantho,” Dagmar says in relief. She sheathes her own sword and lifts off her helmet, shaking her head to let her dark braids fall free.

“Dagmar.” Melantho’s eyes light in welcome, and she sets her sword carefully against the wall. And then they are moving toward each other. They meet in the center and kiss with desperate eagerness, gripping each other tightly.

The hard shapes of their armor press together, hardly a satisfying embrace. By this time, Dagmar knows Melantho’s armor as well as her own. Her hands are deft in unbuckling straps, taking off each piece and laying it aside. Dagmar’s own armor follows, and shortly after, their clothing. They spread their cloaks on the floor, the black and white mingled together, with their other clothing piled above for cushioning. Kneeling, they kiss again. Melantho runs her hands through Dagmar’s braids, tugging gently, and Dagmar shivers. Breathless with longing, she pulls Melantho closer to her. For this brief space of time, while the gates are closed and no eye observes them, the battle is set aside.

Afterwards, they lie entwined in each other’s arms. Dagmar lets her head rest on Melantho’s breast, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing. The stone floor is uncomfortably hard, even with their cloaks and other clothing spread under the two of them. Yet Dagmar prefers this bare and featureless room; when she is elsewhere, she rests on velvet, but she does not have Melantho.  Melantho’s hands trace patterns on her skin: along her arm, across her stomach, lingering a moment over her heart. Dagmar knows she is drawing the lines of each of the wounds she has inflicted in countless battles. Dagmar has given as many wounds to her, with sword and spear and knife. The magical healing afterward leaves no visible sign, not even a scar, but each of them remembers.

Melantho is the first to pull away, sitting up and reaching for her clothing. Dagmar wraps her arm around Melantho’s waist, trying to draw Melantho back down beside her. “We could wait,” she says. “Only a little longer.”

“Duty,” Melantho says. She remains sitting upright; her face has grown stern and remote.

And if they ignored duty, forgot the serried ranks of their armies awaiting word of defeat or victory? If they simply stayed here and refused to fight? Would hunger and thirst finally force them to act, or would their patience outlast even the Masters of the Game, whose will guides the battle? Dagmar has never quite dared to suggest it.

They dress in silence. Dagmar helps Melantho don her armor again, carefully tightening each piece and strap, and Melantho acts as squire to her in turn.

It is done; they are arrayed again in cloak and crown and armor, perfect as two statues: Melantho in black and Dagmar in white. Melantho’s face disappears under her helmet, and Dagmar tries to pretend that the woman beneath it is a stranger and an enemy. But she can still see Melantho’s blue eyes through the slit of the helmet.

Dagmar draws her sword and raises it in salute. “The gates open when life is taken.”

“A life taken returns again.” Melantho’s voice echoes hollowly within her helm.

Dagmar’s sword is a familiar weight in her hand. There is no use in delaying now. The ritual words have steadied her, and she feels her mind settle into the calm focused intensity of battle. Melantho springs forward; Dagmar steps toward her, raising her sword to parry, and they meet in a clash of steel.

They know each other’s fighting styles well from battle after battle, death after death. For a long time, neither can find an opening to inflict more than a slight wound. More than once they have to step back and pause for breath, leaning on their swords; and then it begins again. They are growing weary. It must end soon, one way or another. Melantho has always been more daring, more willing to take risks. She disengages, twists, and aims a sudden two-handed stroke at Dagmar’s head. Dagmar sees her chance, ducks under the blow--she is already bracing herself for the shock of impact, the sharp pain that will follow--but it is Dagmar’s sword that pierces Melantho’s chest.

For a moment they stand there, locked together. Blood slowly wells up around the hilt of Dagmar’s sword. Melantho sways on her feet. Her sword falls from her hand, clattering on the stone floor.

Dagmar catches Melantho before she can fall. She pulls off Melentho’s crowned helm and tosses it aside. Melantho’s hair sticks to her forehead with sweat; her eyes are wide and staring, and Dagmar is not certain Melantho sees her.

She holds Melantho to her chest nonetheless, her face pressed against Melantho’s hair. She rests one hand against Melantho’s neck, feeling the pulse beat beneath her fingers as Melantho’s life drains away. All too soon, the beats grow slower, and then there is nothing. The gates of the room slide open. Melantho’s body vanishes from her arms in the same instant.

Dagmar lets out a slow breath, feeling the sting of her own wounds. Melantho’s sword and helm have disappeared as well. She has nothing to keep, no token of their meeting except the blood on her hand, and that will be gone soon enough. She has only her memories, until she meets Melantho again in a bare room much like this one.

But Dagmar too knows her duty. She straightens her shoulders, settles the white crown more firmly upon her head, and goes forth to announce her victory.

**Author's Note:**

> I chose the names to go with the light and dark squares on a chessboard: Dagmar means "day maid" and Melantho means "black flower".


End file.
